Beauchamp took care to be back at Tarningham Park a full hour and a
half before dinner-time; but schemes and purposes of making love or a
declaration at a certain place and time are never successful.
Continually they are put off, and very often they are forced on by
circumstances, and although there is no event of life perhaps in which
the happy moment is more important, it is seldom met with or chosen.
Such was the case in the present instance: Sir John Slingsby played
third on one occasion, Mrs. Clifford on another, and when Mary, dear
considerate girl, after breaking in for a moment, made a very
reasonable excuse to retire, the dressing-bell rang as she closed the
door, and Beauchamp, knowing that he could not detain Miss Slingsby
more than five minutes, would not attempt to crowd all he had to say
into so short a space. He was resolved to say something, however, and
as Isabella was about to leave him he stopped her, asking if she knew
that her father had invited him to pass the night there.
"Oh, of course," answered his fair companion in a gay tone, "you do
not think he would let you go to pass the hours of darkness amongst
the Goths and Vandals of Tarningham. He would be afraid of your life
being attempted. You do not think of going?"
"I have accepted his invitation," answered her lover, "because I have
several things to talk over with Sir John, and on one subject also
with you, dear lady. Will you give me some time in the course of
to-morrow--a few minutes--nay, perhaps, an hour, alone?"
Isabella coloured and looked away; but she was thankful for a
reprieve from immediate agitation, and she replied in a low tone,
"Certainly--but I must go and dress or my maid will be impatient."
But Beauchamp still detained her for a moment, "You are an early
riser, I think," he said, "will you take a walk before breakfast--down
towards the stream?--Nay, Isabella, why should you hesitate? Remember,
I have a history to give."
"I hope not a sad one," answered Isabella, gaily, "for I think I
should be easily moved to tears just now, and I must not return with
my eyes red--nay, Beauchamp, let me go or I shall cry now."
He released the hand he had taken instantly, and Miss Slingsby took a
step away, but looked round, and returning at once, gave it back
again, saying more gravely, "What is the use of any long history?--and
yet it had better be too. I will take a walk with you when you like,
for I must speak with you too--but not now: there's no time. So
farewell for the present," and she left him.
The dinner passed more quietly than Sir John Slingsby's dinners
usually did. The baronet's spirits, which had risen immensely after
the first pressure was taken off, fell again during the course of the
day; and for the first time in his life, perhaps, he was grave and
thoughtful throughout the evening. Isabella had her store of
meditations, and so had Mary Clifford. The mother of the latter was
calm and sedate as usual; and Doctor Miles dry and sententious; so
that Beauchamp, happy in what he had done, and happy in the confidence
of love, was now the gayest of the party. Thus the evening passed
away, though not sadly, any thing but very merrily; and the whole
party retired early to rest.
The next morning early Beauchamp rose and went down to the
drawing-room, but there was nobody there. One of the housemaids just
passed out as he entered, and he waited for about a quarter of an hour
with some impatience, gazing forth from the windows over the dewy
slopes of the park, and thinking in his heart that Isabella was
somewhat long. Now, to say the truth, she was longer than she might
have been, for Isabella had been up and dressed some time; but there
was a sort of hesitation, a timidity, a weak feeling of alarm,
perhaps, which she had never known before. She shrank from the idea of
going down to meet him, knowing that he was waiting for her. It would
seem like a secret arrangement between them, she thought, and she took
fright at the very idea. Then again, on the other hand, she fancied he
might imagine she was treating him ill not to go, after the sort of
promise she had made; then he had been so kind, so generous, so noble,
that she could not treat him ill, nay not even by the appearance of a
caprice. That settled the matter; and, after about a quarter of an
hour's debating with herself, down she went. Her heart beat terribly;
but Isabella was a girl, who, with all her gaiety and apparent
lightness, had great command over herself; and that command in her
short life had been often tried. She paused then for a moment or two
at the door of the drawing-room, struggled with and overcame her
agitation, and then went in with a face cleared, a light step, and a
cheerful air. Her hand was in Beauchamp's in a moment, and after a few
of the ordinary words of a first morning meeting, he asked, "Will you
take a walk, dear Isabella, or shall we remain here?"
"Do you not see bonnet on my head and shawl over my arm?" she said in
a gay tone; "who would stay in the house on such a bright morning as
this when they have a free hour before them?"
"Come, then," he answered, and in two minutes more they were walking
away together towards the wooded hill through which they had passed
with Mary Clifford and Hayward about three weeks before.
It is strange how silent people are when they have much to say to each
other. For the first quarter of a mile neither Beauchamp nor Isabella
said a word; but at length, when the boughs began to wave over their
heads, he laid his hand gently upon hers, and said,
"I think there can be no misunderstanding, Isabella, as to the words I
spoke the night before last. Nor must you think me possessed of a very
eager vanity if I have construed your reply as favourable to myself. I
know you too well not to feel assured that you would not have so
answered me had you been inclined to decide against my hopes. But yet,
Isabella, I will not and do not consider you as plighted to me by the
words then spoken till--"
"That is just what I was going to say," replied Isabella, much to
Beauchamp's consternation; "I wished much to speak with you for the
very purpose of assuring you that I do not consider you in the least
bound by what you then said."
She spoke with a great effort for calmness, but there was an anxious
trembling of the voice which betrayed her agitation, and in the end
she paused for breath.
"Hear me, hear me," she said, as she saw Beauchamp about to reply;
"since that night every thing has changed. I then thought my father
embarrassed, but I did not know him to be ruined. I looked upon you as
Mr. Beauchamp; I now find you of a rank superior to our own, one who
may well look to rank and fortune in his bride. You, too, were
ignorant of the sad state of my poor father's affairs. It is but fair,
then, it is but right that I should set you entirely free from any
implied engagement made in a moment of generous thoughtlessness; and I
do so entirely, nor will ever for a moment think you do aught amiss if
you consider better, more wisely, I will say, of this matter; and let
all feelings between us subside into kind friendship on your part, and
gratitude and esteem upon mine."
"You set me free!" said Beauchamp, repeating her words with a smile,
"how can you do so? My dear Isabella, this is treacherous of you, to
talk of setting me free even while you are binding me heart and spirit
to you more strongly than ever. Not one word more upon that subject,
my beloved girl. You must not teach me that you think I am so sordid,
so pitiful a being to let a consideration of mere fortune, where I
have more than plenty weigh with me, for one moment--I am yours,
Isabella, if you will take me--yours for ever, loving you deeply,
truly, aye, and understanding you fully, too, which so many do not:
but it is I who must set you free, dear girl; and I will not ask, I
will not receive any promise till you have heard the story of my past
life."
"But you must have it," said Isabella, raising her dewy eyes with a
smile, "these things must ever be mutual, my lord. I am yours or you
are not mine. But Beauchamp, we are coquetting with each other; you
tell me you love me; I, like all foolish girls, believe. Surely there
is no need of any other story but that. Do you suppose, Beauchamp,
that after all I have seen of you, after all you have done, I can
imagine for one moment, that there is any thing in the past which
could make me change my opinion or withhold my hand? No, no, a woman's
confidence, when it is given, is unbounded--at least, mine is so in
you, and I need not hear any tale of past days before I bind myself to
you by that tie which, to every right mind, must seem as strong as a
vow."
"Thanks, dearest girl, thanks!" answered her lover, "but yet you must
hear the story; not from my lips, perhaps, for it will be better
communicated to you by another; and I have commissioned good Dr. Miles
to tell you all, for I would not have it said or thought hereafter, by
your father or by any one, that I have had even the slightest
concealment from you."
"Not to me! not to me!" said Isabella eagerly, and then added,
laughing, "I will not listen to the good doctor; if there is any thing
that must be said let it be told to my father."
Beauchamp smiled and shook his head. "You will think me sadly
obstinate and exciting," he said, "but yet you must grant me as a
favour, Isabella, that which I ask. Listen to our worthy friend the
rector. His tale will not be very long; for many sad things may be
told in a few words, and an account of events which have embittered my
whole existence till within the few last days can be given in five
minutes. I will tell Sir John myself, but the reason why I so
earnestly wish you to hear all too, is, that no man can ever judge
rightly of the finer feelings of a woman's heart. We cannot tell how
things which affect us in one way, may affect her; and as there can be
no perfect love without perfect confidence, you must share all that is
in my bosom, in the past as well as in the future."
"Well," said Isabella, smiling, "as to obey is to be one of my vows,
Beauchamp, I may as well begin my task at once. I will listen to the
good doctor, though I confess it is unwillingly; but still, whatever
he says it will make no difference."
Beauchamp replied not to what she said; but the conversation took
another and a sweeter turn, and as the words they spoke were certainly
not intended to be repeated to the world I will not repeat them. Time
flies swiftly when love's pinions are added to his own, and Isabella
coloured when passing the windows of the breakfast-room on their
return, she saw the whole party assembled and Mary occupying her usual
post. While Beauchamp entered and took the first fire of the enemy,
she ran up to her room to lay aside her walking-dress; but Sir John
was merciless, and the moment she came in assailed her with an
exclamation of "Ha, ha, young lady! Early walks and morning rambles,
making all your friends believe you have eloped! I hope you have had a
pleasant walk, Isabella, with this noble lord. Pray were you talking
politics?"
"Profound!" answered his daughter, with a gay air, though she could
not keep the blood from mounting into her cheek.
"And what conclusion did you come to on the state of affairs in
general?" continued Sir John, looking from Isabella to Beauchamp. "Is
there to be peace or war?"
"First a truce," answered Beauchamp, "and then a lasting peace, the
terms of which are to be settled by plenipotentiaries hereafter."
"Oh!" said Sir John Slingsby, now for the first time comprehending how
far matters had proceeded between his daughter and his guest, and
giving up the jest he remained in thought for some time.
When breakfast was over and the party had risen, Beauchamp at once
took his host's arm, saying, in a low tone, "Before any other
business, I must crave a few moments' conversation, Sir John."
"Certainly, certainly," said Sir John Slingsby aloud; and while Mary
Clifford put her arm through Isabella's, with a heart full of kindly
wishes and hopes for her cousin, the baronet led his friend into the
library, and their conference commenced. As might be expected,
Beauchamp met no coldness on the part of Sir John Slingsby; but after
a hearty shake of the hand, an eulogium well deserved upon his
daughter, and an expression of his entire satisfaction and consent,
the baronet's ear was claimed for the tale of Beauchamp's previous
life. It did not produce the effect he expected; for although he had
some acquaintance with Sir John's character and habits, he certainly
did not anticipate the bursts of laughter with which the old gentleman
listened to events which had rendered him miserable. But there are two
sides to every thing, and Sir John had all his life taken the risible
point of view of all subjects. He laughed then, heartily declared it
an exceedingly good joke, but no marriage at all; and it was only when
he found that counsel learned in the law had pronounced it to be
valid, that he began to look at the matter more seriously. As soon,
however, as he heard the intelligence which Beauchamp had lately
received from Paris, he started up from his chair, exclaiming, "Well,
then, she is dead and that's an end of it. So now I congratulate you,
my dear lord, and say that the sooner the marriage is over the better.
I shall tell Isabella so, and she has no affectations, thank God. But
come, let us go to her. I must kiss her and give her my blessing."
The whole conversation had occupied nearly an hour, and when Sir John
Slingsby and Beauchamp entered the drawing-room they found it only
tenanted by Isabella and good Doctor Miles. Her face was uncommonly
serious, one might say sad, and the worthy clergyman's was not gay.
"What is it, doctor?" cried Sir John Slingsby, "you look as grave as
ten judges. Whose cat is dead?"
"James Thomson's," said Dr. Miles drily, "and thereupon I wish to
speak with you, Sir John, for I suppose you will attend the funeral."
"You are a funny fellow, Doctor Miles," replied the baronet; "I'll
talk to you in a minute, but I must first give my daughter a kiss--the
first she has had this morning, for she played truant, and is going to
do so again." So saying, he pressed his lips upon Isabella's cheek,
and whispered a few words that made her colour vary, and then linking
his arm in that of Dr. Miles, led him from the room, leaving his
daughter and her lover alone together.
Isabella's face looked sadder and graver than Beauchamp had ever seen
it; and to say the truth his heart began to beat somewhat uneasily,
especially as for a moment or two she did not speak, but remained with
her eyes bent down. "Isabella," he said at length, "Isabella, you look
very sad."
"How can I be otherwise, Beauchamp," asked the fair girl, holding out
her hand to him, "when I have just heard a narrative of events which
have embittered all your life? I grieve for you very truly, indeed,
and sympathise with you as much as a woman can do, with one placed in
circumstances in which she could never find herself. But indeed,
Beauchamp, it shall be the pleasant task of my whole life to make you
forget these past sorrows."
His hand clasped more warmly upon hers as she spoke, and in the end he
sat down by her on the sofa; his arm glided round her waist and his
lips were pressed upon hers. She had not the slightest touch of Miss
Biron about her, and though she blushed a little she was not horrified
or shocked in the least.
"Then you do not blame?" he said, "and notwithstanding all this, you
are mine, dearest girl?"
"Why should I blame you?" said Isabella with a smile, "you were not
the person in fault--except, perhaps, in having drunk too much wine
once in your life; and I suppose that is what all young men do, and
old men too, very often; but the punishment has certainly far exceeded
the offence; and as to being yours, Beauchamp, you know that I am--or
at least will be when you wish it."
Beauchamp took her at her word, and that evening there were grand
consultations upon many things. Sir John Slingsby was a hasty man, and
he liked every thing done hastily. Love or murder, strife or
matrimony, he would have it over in a hurry. Isabella, Mrs. Clifford,
Mary, were all overruled, and as Beauchamp submitted to his fate as
determined by Sir John without a murmur, the marriage was appointed
for that day fortnight.